


the rest of you & the best of you belong to me

by pyotr



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: M/M, Multi, vague handjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-08 01:14:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15919932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyotr/pseuds/pyotr
Summary: “you’ve a high opinion of me,” francis says, and his voice is low and gravelly in the way that makes thomas want to push him down and fuck him silly, “to think i’ve ever been able to quit a vice.”





	the rest of you & the best of you belong to me

**Author's Note:**

> francienolan asked: “I thought you didn’t want me.” The Terror (of course) who is totally up to you!
> 
> title is from hozier's nfwmb

thomas had thought he’d given this up, had thought he’d lost this as soon as francis’s letters turned from wry melancholia to lovelorn delirium, waxing almost poetic for paragraphs about the young miss cracroft. 

 _by christ, tom,_ francis had written him, not long after he’d set sail down south with ross,  _i am going to marry that woman._

he’d never been jealous, per se- he had no right to be, with a wife of his own and no real commitment between himself and francis- but there had been a strange sense of grief, there, a door closing, an end. he’d let himself accept the fact that they would change.

but miss cracroft had rejected francis’s suit, twice.

and now here they were again, falling together and slotting into place as if nothing had happened at all. thomas breathes in deep, the air feeling too warm and close, pressed as he was between francis and the wall, and thinks that he should feel different about all this. that he should feel anything but relief when francis’s teeth scrape across his throat and his fingers curl roughly around his cock.

“franny, you bastard,” thomas laughs, but it’s a touch too breathless to be normal and he clutches at francis too tightly, his hands curled into his hair and the back of his shirt. “thought you didn’t want me anymore.”

this is what he had thought he had lost. this is what the grief had gnawed at him for.

francis grumbles something against his throat and then moves to dig his teeth into that knot of muscle where neck meets shoulder, hard. he twists his wrist, too, in that way that thomas had always liked, and it hurts a little bit, the only thing smoothing the friction being the spit on francis’s palm and the way thomas’s cock leaks, but it’s still  _good,_ horribly so. 

“you’ve a high opinion of me,” francis says, and his voice is low and gravelly in the way that makes thomas want to push him down and fuck him silly, “to think i’ve ever been able to quit a vice.”

thomas smiles, then, sharp and jagged like usual, even as his knees shake a little and his breath catches somewhere in his chest when francis drags the pad of his thumb over the head of his cock. they hardly ever kiss but he drags him into one that’s more teeth than tongue, his fingers tangled tight in francis’s hair.

“tell you what, captain,” thomas says, and they’re still close enough that their noses bump, lips brushing as he speaks, “you keep talking like that and finish me off here, with your hand, and i’ll use my mouth on you.”

they’ve never been tender with each other, never soft; they’re too old and have seen too much to be so sentimental. but francis is his best friend, and while he’d be happy if he ever ran off and married some proper english girl and shaped up to a proper london life, he wouldn’t ever be able to forgive him for it.


End file.
